Sixteen or So
by Zohh
Summary: "She stuffed her face with cobbler like a spinster woman."  A series of unrelated one-shots dealing mostly with Emily's storyline.  Will include Emily/Canon female love interest.
1. One

A/N: Once upon a time, I watched the series premiere of _Pretty Little Liars_. Around six or so months later, Emily Fields came out to her parents.

That's right: I have a new obsession, and its name is Emily Fields.

* * *

The weight that had been sitting on top of her had finally been lifted, but her lungs must have left with it. Or at least, that's how Emily Field's felt after she said "I'm gay" to her military father. Emily had said that word "I'm" many times before in her sixteen or so years. She had said that word "gay" before, too, but definitely not as many times in her life. But never in her sixteen or so years had Emily said, "I'm gay." At least, not out loud.

She had thought about it, contemplating the meaning behind the label and whether or not she truly fit into it. Yet still, she had never before, in her sixteen or so years, contemplated anywhere else other than her head.

So when Emily Fields said the words "I'm" and "gay" out loud, with the two words right next to each other, she felt the weight disappear and her lungs disappear right along with it. She uttered the two words, surprising even herself, and then had to repeat them just to make sure she had actually said them in the first place.

Her father, more shocked than ever, sat down on his daughter's bed and looked at her. And all Emily could do, in her sixteenth or so year, was look away.

* * *

Somehow (and Emily was still unsure _how_ exactly), her lungs returned and, finally, she was able to breath. Her lungs returned, her mother refused to even look at her, and her parents wanted to meet her girlfriend. Or rather, her _father_ wanted to because Mrs. Fields would be perfectly happy to have Maya sent off to some foreign country.

In her sixteen or so years, Emily had never dreaded something as much as she was dreading this dinner. Even with everything going on with "A" and Hanna almost dying via car, Emily was dreading eating dinner with her parents _and_ her girlfriend.

It was obvious to Maya how unnerved Emily was. In an attempt to calm her down, Maya coaxed the other girl to let her come over after school (and before the "dreaded" dinner) so that they could talk and Maya could reassure her that _everything was going to be okay_.

Emily agreed, but only if her parents were both gone. Not to mention, she had a hard time resisting Maya, especially when the other girl smiled and spoke in her smooth, calming voice. When she pulled up to her house after school with Maya in the passenger seat, Emily was not at all surprised, but still relieved all the same, to find her family's only other car gone from the driveway.

"Wait here for a minute." Emily said, and Maya nodded in return.

With her backpack hanging loosely off of her shoulder, Emily unlocked the door to her house- a sure sign that no one was home, otherwise the door would have already been unlocked- and walked in, immediately setting her bag down with a loud thump.

"Dad, are you home?" Emily called out with the front door still ajar. She called out for her father once more, and waited a minute or two for a response. When no response was given, she turned around to face her car from the open doorway. Rather than going back outside, however, Emily simply leaned against the door frame and smiled, and waited for Maya to notice her.

It took her a moment, but Maya did notice Emily smiling from the doorway, and quickly got out of the car with her own bag strapped over her shoulder. As she walked up to the other girl, Maya made sure to slip her arms around Emily's waist and conveyed a smile of her own.

"Let's go into the living room," Emily said, biting down on her bottom lip and picking her backpack up.

* * *

Mr. Fields walked gingerly down the stairs. He had just woken up from a rather pleasant nap, and knew that his daughter must be home from school already. He didn't see her backpack on the ground as he passed the front door- something he remembered seeing a lot the last time he was home. However, judging by the sound, or really lack thereof, he simply assumed that his daughter was upstairs in her room doing homework. Mr. Fields smiled.

His smile faltered, though, when he heard the sound of a hushed voice coming from the living room. Was there someone else in his house? He strained his ears to listen.

It was a girl's voice.

He let out the breath that he had been holding in. The voice was, in fact, Emily's. She, Mr. Fields presumed, was talking on the phone with one of her friends like Aria or Spencer.

But then another girl's voice chimed in, and from what Mr. Fields could remember about his daughter's friends, it was most definitely not Aria or Spencer talking back.

Slowly, Mr. Fields walked towards the living room, lifting and placing his feet to and from the floor carefully so as to not make any noise. The hushed voices grew louder with each quiet step he took until he was standing behind a wall right next to the living room. His face remained stoic as he listened, and his time with the military allowed him to breathe freely without causing his air intake to become noticeable.

"I don't know, Maya..."

Mr. Fields perked his head up when he heard the name _Maya_. Other than the pictures that his wife had shown him, he had never officially seen what she, his daughter's supposed girlfriend, looked like. With one, quick movement, he turned his head to look into the living room. The two girls were standing with their backpacks laying haphazardly on the floor. Emily was looking down at the ground and had her arms crossed, her hair hanging over her face. Maya's hands were clasped together, hanging in front of her, as she looked at Emily with patient eyes. Mr. Fields swallowed hard.

"It's just...my mother won't even _look_ at me." Emily whispered her words and brought her head back up. Her face was contorted in a way that expressed both utter sadness and complete uncertainty.

Mr. Fields' stoicism broke as he watched his daughter nearly break. He wouldn't have been surprised to see tears on her flushed cheeks, had he been close enough and not hiding behind a wall. Emily unfolded her arms and dropped them down to her side, but Maya took hold of them and brought the two closer so that their arms were in a tangle.

"It'll all be okay. Sooner or later, it will all be okay." Maya said in her smooth and calming voice that Emily could not resist.

The kiss was inevitable. Mr. Fields should have seen it coming. Yet despite all of that, he was still almost as shocked as he was when his daughter had breathed the words "I'm" and "gay" right next to each other. And all Mr. Fields could do, in his sixteenth or so year as a father, was look away.

* * *

A/N: I regret _nothing_. Other than the inevitable mistakes. I think there are some tense issues.


	2. Two

**Author's note:** This isn't a continuation of the last one. It stands on its own. But I've decided to write a different one-shot after each episode, using the line _sixteen or so _(or some variation of it) frequently throughout the piece.

I'm pretty sure that every one-shot will deal only with Emily's storyline. Because she's rad.

* * *

Mrs. Fields felt sick. Sick to her stomach. In her sixteen or so years as a mother, she had never felt that sick before- including her pregnancy. From where she was in the kitchen drying glasses, she heard the front door open and someone walk through, and a pair of keys clanging as they were set on the side table.

"Emily, is that you?" Mrs. Fields called out. Even though she knew the answer, confirmation never hurt.

"Yeah. I'll be upstairs." Emily's words were flat, and their monotone resonated in her mother's ears with each thudding step she took up the stairs.

Mrs. Fields sighed, her stomach knotting and twisting like a pretzel ready to be baked. She threw down the dishtowel in her hand, letting it hang carelessly over the sink, and made her way out of the kitchen, jogging silently up the staircase. She stopped in front of her daughter's room, hesitant before bring herself closer to the crack between the door and the hallway. Bending her head down, she listened.

"Yeah, Mr. Fitz said that we're having a discussion in class, and that our participation grade will be based off of that...Mmhm...I know...Oh, I got a ninety on it, barely an A...Yes...I'm marking up my book so I know what to say...Alright, I'll see you later Aria...bye."

Mrs. Fields eased her breathing. Rarely, as a mother for sixteen or so years, did she listen in on her daughter's conversations, but she felt her reasons were justified. The ever-present sickened feeling in her stomach subsided into a dull queasiness, and she tapped lightly on the door before walking into the room.

"Are you hungry? You usually eat something after school,"

Emily was sitting cross-legged on her bed with a stack of sticky-notes and an F. Scott Fitzgerald book in her hands. Her phone lay silent next to her left knee. "I'm fine." Her response was curt and she merely glanced up at her mother.

"Are you sure? Because I can bring something up while you finish your homework,"

"Really, mom. I'm fine." Her response wasn't as curt as her previous one, but she still remained tight-lipped.

Mrs. Fields sighed again. "Em, sweetie. We really need to talk."

Closing her eyes, Emily took in a deep breath. When she opened them, she saw, for the first time in her sixteen or so years, that her mother was _completely vulnerable_. She put her book down next to her phone and stood up. She herself had been completely vulnerable when she was sitting on the bed with her father not too long ago. She didn't want that this time. There couldn't be two vulnerable people talking, so she chose to stand and look her mother in the eye.

"I don't like...the way this has all been going." Mrs. Fields said tentatively.

Emily tilted her head, silently inquiring as to what "this" meant.

"I-I've been getting upset and you've been hiding in your room... It's not good. It's not good for the family."

"Mom..." There was a tone of desperation in Emily's voice. She was desperate. Desperate yet hopeful, because she really thought that her mother was _trying_.

"I want to help you, sweetie. I really want to help you." Emily smiled upon hearing this from her mother. Her _mother_ was _trying_.

Mrs. Fields smiled, too, beaming down at her daughter. She let out a breath and continued: "Maybe we can go talk to someone? Someone who can help get this out of you."

"Get...get this out of me?" Emily's smile broke. Her hopefulness shattered. "There's nothing _in_ me, mom. There is nothing _wrong_ with me!"

"Yes, there is! You need help, Em." Mrs. Fields' voice was hoarse as she spoke. "I...I tolerated this at first. I tolerated that...that dinner, and-"

"Mom!" Emily cried, cutting her off. "I'm not a negative to be tolerated! I am your _daughter_."

Mrs. Fields' eyes were wide and she had to clasp her hands together to keep from trembling. Her daughter, in her sixteen or so years, had never cut her off before.

Emily ran a hand through her dark hair before continuing. "I get that you're having trouble accepting this; accepting _me_. I can't force you to be okay with this any more than you can't force me to be something that I'm not. But I am your daughter. You're supposed to love me." She was trembling now. Visibly trembling, and unlike her mother, she didn't bother to try and hide it.

"Please, mom. Why can't you just love me?" Emily breathed her last words. She looked up, only to see her mother shaking her head.

Mrs. Fields did want to say something. She wanted to respond to what her daughter had spilled out to her. But the image of her daughter _kissing_ another girl, kissing that _Maya_ girl on the front porch was engraving itself in her mind. So she shook her head, wiped her eyes, and walked away.

For the first time in her sixteen or so years, Emily Fields saw her mother give up. From her bed, her phone was lighting up and vibrating, sounding off a low humming noise. But she didn't bother to go and retrieve it. Instead, she cried.

Emily cried. She held her head down, letting her dark hair cascade in front of her face, and cried.

Her phone went off once more, but she ignored it. Downstairs, her mother had completely wiped her face of emotion and went back to drying off the glasses, even though they had air-dried on their own. After a few minutes, the doorbell rang, and Mrs. Fields set down the dishtowel and took a deep breath in order to convey a normal appearance.

"Hi, Mrs. Fields!" Aria greeted her and Spencer waved "Is Emily here? We tried calling her, but she didn't pick up."

Mrs. Fields swallowed. "Yeah, she's upstairs doing homework."

"Do you mind if we go upstairs?" Spencer asked, smoothing out her blouse.

Mrs. Fields smiled and nodded, opening up the door wider to let them in. She hadn't noticed until Aria and Spencer walked in, but Maya had been behind them, seemingly hiding behind Spencer's height. She went back to the kitchen and choked out a gasp.

"Emily?" Aria knocked on the door. "Em, are you okay?"

Emily snapped out of her trance, nearly falling over. "Y-yeah."

Aria opened up the door and three girls walked in. They all almost broke at the sight of Emily's red eyes and raw face; it was obvious that she had been crying.

Spencer had to refrain herself from running up and hugging her. She directed her eyes at Maya, who looked like she contemplating doing just that.

"Oh, Em..." Aria, like Spencer, wanted to drop everything and run up and hug Emily. And she, like Spencer, instead directed her eyes at Maya.

Maya took in the situation. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it. She knew Aria and Spencer were staring at her, and she knew they wanted to go and comfort Emily, but were expecting her to do it. So she did.

She slowly walked up to Emily and looked at the other girl with concern in her eyes. Maya wrapped her arms around her, embracing her with all of the care that she, in her own sixteenth or so year, could provide. Emily closed her burning eyes and pressed her head against Maya's shoulder, just simply breathing her in.

Aria and Spencer stood awkwardly to the side, waiting patiently for their friend to relax and calm down.

It was only a moment before Emily sighed and brought her head up. When she saw two of her friends behind Maya, she broke out in a weak smile of gratitude.

"Em...what happened?" Spencer asked as she and Aria walked closer.

Emily looked around at the three girls and swallowed. "I...my mother and I tried talking. It...didn't go well."

"It'll be okay, Emily." Aria said. "You've got us," she gestured to Spencer and Maya, "and Hanna...even though she can't leave the house. But you've got us, and it will be okay."

Emily nodded. She knew that she had her friends and girlfriend to support her. But that didn't change the fact that her own mother had walked away and given up.

Spencer shifted her weight and exchanged glances with Aria. "Well, we just wanted to see if you were okay, Emily, since you weren't picking up your phone."

"Yeah." Aria smiled. "But, call us later." It was more of a demand, and Emily knew that the two were implying that they had really wanted to talk about Toby's return.

"Um, I guess I should..." Maya's voice trailed off and she tilted her head slightly to the side.

"No!" Aria said. "Uh, you shouldn't leave just because we are." Both Aria and Spencer looked at Maya, waiting for her to catch on.

"Oh...oh! Right." Maya leaned onto her toes and back down.

Emily breathed out a small chuckle. "Thanks guys. Really."

"You know you can always talk to us, Em." Spencer said as she and Aria walked back towards the door.

"Yeah. We'll talk to you later." They waved and closed the door behind them.

When the two left, Maya turned back around and cupped Emily's face, kissing her simply on the lips. "I obviously don't know what your mother said or didn't say...but I'm here. Always."

Emily wanted to cry again. But at this point, in her sixteen or so years, she knew that all crying would do would make her eyes puffy and it would not help her cause with her mother. She took hold of Maya's hands, moving them from her face to her hips. Emily smiled, a _real_ smile, and brought her mouth back to Maya's.

Spencer and Aria were about to walk out of the front door when they heard soft footsteps behind them.

"Are you two leaving already?" Mrs. Fields asked, toting around that same dishtowel.

"Yeah, we just needed to talk to Emily about something." Aria held back her new-found disdain for Mrs. Fields and let her usual sweetness radiate off of her.

"Thanks, Mrs. Fields," Spencer didn't know why she was thinking the woman who was making life difficult for one of her best friends, but she knew it was the proper thing to do. With a mumbled "goodbye," the door closed with a soft thud and they were gone.

Mrs. Fields shifted her gaze between the now-closed door and the now-empty staircase. She was waiting for Maya to come down the stairs and leave, but the realization hit her, scalding like hot soup, that Maya _was not_ going to walk down the stairs anytime soon.

And Mrs. Fields felt sicker than ever in her sixteenth or so year as a mother. Sick to her stomach.

* * *

**Author's note: **"I hear the word 'tolerance'—that some people are trying to teach people to be tolerant of gays. I'm not satisfied with that word. I am gay, and I am not seeking to be 'tolerated'. One tolerates a toothache, rush-hour traffic, an annoying neighbor with a cluttered yard. _I am not a negative to be tolerated_."- Chely Wright.


	3. Three

**Author's note: **This is like, a week late. Oops. I don't know. It was just really hard to write. I'm still a student aide (different teacher, however), so I might have some time in the next couple of days to write during school.

A few things: This one is for episode thirteen. Aka, even though it's being _posted_ after episode fourteen has aired, the most recent episode was ignored in the writing of this one-shot (mostly because everything accept that last few paragraphs was written beforehand). ALSO. _Sixteen or so_. It's meant to be repeated throughout each one-shot. Repetition. It's a rhetorical mode. RHETORIC. Aristotle, people.

* * *

There is a difference between having _best friends _and having _the best friends_. Emily Fields knew that difference, and she was pleased to say that the difference between the two didn't matter. She would have never imagined, in her sixteen or so years, that her best friends would become the _best_ friends in just a matter of hours. She knew, of course, that her friends were the best, that was more of an opinion than a fact. However, that opinion did turn into a fact, and Emily Fields knew that her best friends were the _best_ friends.

As she pulled up to her house after driving back from Spencer's, the one thing going through Emily's mind was how much she didn't want to go inside. She didn't want to be in her room, where her pillows had the lingering scent of Maya's lotion, and she definitely didn't want to be around her mother.

But nonetheless, Emily took in a deep breath and got out of her car, mindlessly locking it, and stuffed her keys into her pocket. The images from the video of Allison had been gnawing at her ever since she left Spencer's house, and that mixed with the emotional turmoil of Maya leaving at the dirty hands of her mother had made her more exhausted than any swim meet she had ever been to.

"There you are, Em," Mrs. Fields said as she walked through the door. "I thought you were going to be home thirty minutes ago?"

Emily shrugged. "Hannna needed some extra help studying since she missed so many days."

"You could have at least called me and told me that you were going to be home later than planned," Mrs. Fields crossed her arms and stared down at her daughter with hard eyes.

Emily only shrugged again. "I'm going to go to bed now." With that, the sixteen or so-year-old turned on her heal and walked towards the staircase.

"Emily, wait! We aren't finished here,"

"What's there to finish? I came home later than expected; I'm sorry. But it's not like I came home _stoned_." Emily added emphasis on her last word, mimicking her mother's previous action by crossing her arms.

"What has gotten into you lately?" Mrs. Fields asked, throwing her arms up into the air and then dropping them down to her side.

"What's gotten into _me_?" Emily let out an airy laugh. "What about you, mom? You used to never barge in on me when I was in my room, or look through my friends' bags."

"This isn't you." Mrs. Fields said, shaking her head. "My daughter doesn't talk back to me. She doesn't forget to call when she's running late. Where's the old Emily?"

"Mom, just stop! I'm the same person as I have always been. The only thing that's different is that I'm not hiding _who_ I am." Emily ran a hand through her hair, blinking away the saline that was invading her eyes.

"No!" Mrs. Fields yelled. "You were never like this. Not until you met _that_ girl!"

Emily's face grew warmer and she looked up at her mother. She never thought, in her sixteen or so years, that she would be spilling her heart out via shouting match with her mother. She had always had a good relationship with her mother, and any fight they had was short-lived. But this was more than just a simple fight.

"That's not true," Emily said, moving her focus away from her mother.

"What? What do you mean?"

Emily bit her lip and her eyes stung with salty wetness. "I...I was in love with Allison."

Mrs. Fields inhaled sharply.

"I was in love with Allison, and then she died." Emily swallowed before continuing, briefly glancing over at her mother. "I wasn't happy with Ben. I didn't actually like him. But then I found Maya, and I was _happy_ again. I was happy with her, and you took her away from me!"

"I did it for your own good! "I did it because I love you, sweetie."

Emily fervently shook her head. "She made me happy; after everything that happened, she was the one that made me happy. And you got her sent away." Her voice was low and her face was now red and wet. "You took away the one person that I loved!" With that, Emily turned around and ran up the stairs, leaving her mother to gape open-mouthed in the dimly lit hallway.

It took Emily sixteen or so years to realize who she truly was. She didn't mind that, though. What she did mind was her mother's current acknowledgments of it, or rather, lack thereof. But as the door to her room swung closed and she flounced onto her bed with a huff, Emily decided that she didn't care so much about what her mother thought. Maya was gone and Emily needed to focus on getting through the next three months without her. She couldn't have her mother ruining that.

With her head buried into her pillow, Emily sighed. The scent of Maya's lotion lingered on the fabric, but she still couldn't manage to bring her head up. Her cell phone had fallen next to her leg when she landed on the bed, and she didn't notice its presence until it emitted a low hum and shook violently. She reached down to grab it and saw that it was a new text message.

_"So...my bed is still made...?" _It was from Spencer.

Emily laughed quietly and typed out her response. _"We didn't go that far."_

Her phone lit up and buzzed less than a minute later. _"Meaning...?"_

Emily bit her lip and continued to silently laugh. _"Uh...we didn't quite make it to the bed." _She was grateful that this conversation was taking place through technology and not happening in person. She knew for a fact that her face would be bright red if Spencer could really see her.

_"I'll be sure to get out the vacuum cleaner, then. Haha." _

Emily shook her head and set her phone down by her knee. That small conversation had definitely helped to alleviate some of the anger she had been feeling due to her mother. It was less than two minutes, however, when her phone started vibrating again, and Emily looked down at the small screen with a furrowed brown. This time it was Hanna.

_"Aria and I just checked True North's site. They have a visiting day coming up!"_

And Emily knew, in her sixteen or so years, that she had the_ best_ friends.

* * *

**Author's note: **I'm taking advantage by posting this a bit late. From Heather Hogan's recap of episode thirteen:

"Remember earlier when Spencer was so shocked to discover Emily is hopelessly romantic? They'd known her with boys, before; with a longterm boy named Ben. But they never knew her like this, because _she_ never knew _herself_ like this. No one ever forgets the girl who helped her out of the closet. No one ever for forgets her first love. Emily's mother can take away her freedom. Emily's mother can take away her car. She can withhold her approval, her affection, her attention. She can lock Emily away in her castle in the clouds for a thousand years. But she'll never be able to take away this moment: Emily slow-dancing in the candlelight with the first woman she ever loved.

_It doesn't change the way I feel about her._

Emily and Maya say goodbye. A real, proper, you'll-always-hold-my-heart-in-your-hands goodbye."


	4. Four

**Author's Note: **I'm really bad at updating.

* * *

Emily Fields woke up with a groan, shielding her eyes with her hands from the overly-bright light streaming through the window. Her surroundings were different than what she was used to, and then she realized she wasn't where she thought she was. She was laying in a bed that wasn't her own, inside of a room that wasn't her own, with a pounding headache that she so wished wasn't her own. As she sat up, the memories from the night before started flooding her mind, and she then knew that she was in Spencer's room, because she was in no state to go back to her own house. At the tender age of sixteen or so, Emily woke up with a hangover.

The memories from the previous night were flooding back into her mind, and Emily groaned again. Apparently, she thought stealing Hanna's flask and drinking the whole thing was a _really_ good idea. She wished that idea wasn't her own, too. But the pain drilling into her head told her otherwise, and the blinding light seemed to have mocked her, and Emily Fields just wanted to _die_.

* * *

"Do you think we should wake her up?" Spencer asked, glancing over at the digital clock in her kitchen. The colons in the middle flashed and the minute went from 11:13 to 11:14.

Hanna shook her head. "No, we should probably just let her sleep. But when she does wake up, keep your voice at a low level, and we might want to close all of the blinds, too."

"What, did your flask turn her into a zombie, or something?" Spencer gave a short laugh.

"After drinking the entire thing on her own, she's going to have a _major_ headache. Trust me."

"I still can't believe _she did_ drink it," The two girls nodded and then fell into an impregnable silence. In their sixteen or so years, they had dealt with their fair share of scandals and dramatic events, but alcohol had never been one of those.

Spencer was the first to sigh, and then Hanna followed. They were sitting around the kitchen table, looking between each other, the clock, and the open doorway.

The silence broke when Spencer set her hands down on the table: "Do you think we should make her some coffee?"

"Yeah..." Hanna said slowly. "That might be a good idea."

* * *

Emily was no sitting up in bed...with the covers over her head. The air underneath of the blankets was stuffy, but it was better than being subjected to the blinding light coming from the window. She knew she should just go down stairs, now that she was up, but she didn't want to face her friends after last night. On the bright side (and Emily laughed bitterly to herself upon thinking of the word "bright"), she now knew, even at the age of sixteen or so, that she was an irritable drunk. So, in the case of future alcoholic escapades (and Emily hoped there wouldn't be any for a while), she could forewarn anyone with her during said escapade (especially of her ability to open her own _damn_ doors).

Sighing, Emily closed her eyes and threw the blanket off of her head. If she was going to have to endure the bright light, she mind as well take it easy and come to it slowly. She ran a hand through her dark hair and looked at her surroundings once more.

It was as Emily was rubbing her temples that the sudden need to blame someone (other than herself, because blaming herself made too much sense) for the pain that she was in.

Aria? Aria offered her water, but she refused to drink it. That rules Aria out.

Spencer? She was _in_ Spencer's room at the moment. So that rules Spencer out.

Hanna? Well, it _was _Hanna's alcohol that she drank. She would have to think more about blaming Hanna.

Ali? Ali would have encouraged the drinking, but she wasn't around to do that anymore. Emily bit her lip and removed Alison from her list of people to blame.

"A"? "A" has caused so many problems, and while this may have stemmed from one of those many problems, it wasn't direct. She still kept "A" on her list of people to blame, anyway.

Maya? Emily wanted to blame Maya. She did. But something told her not to. Maybe it was because she knew that if she saw Maya right now, there would be nothing that could stop her from running into the other girl's arms. Emily mentally fought with herself before deciding to pull Maya off of the list (but she would be okay with putting her back on the list if need be).

Her father? No. She shook her head. Absolutely not. It's not his fault that he got sent early to Texas. He was definitely ruled out.

Her mother? Emily perked her head up at the thought, ignoring the light bursting through the edges of the window shades. Of course! Her mother was the one that got Maya sent away, causing Emily to become depressed (not clinically, of coursed), which in turn caused her to spend a lot of money so she could talk to Maya, which _then_ caused her to steal Hanna's flask and get drunk.

For the first time in over twenty-four hours, Emily smiled. _This was all her mother's fault. _With that, Emily hopped off of the bed, still clad in her clothed from the night before, and gingerly made her way down the stairs.

* * *

In her sixteen or so years, Hanna had never seen someone look so happy after having finished off an entire flask full of alcohol the night before. Both her and Spencer exchanged confused glances as Emily flounced into the kitchen.

"Uh...hey, Em." Hanna said tentatively.

"Hi." She replied. "Um, I just wanted to...apologize. For last night."

Spencer smiled, despite her confusion. "Don't worry, Em. I'm always happy to help." She gestured towards Hanna. "We both are."

"Thanks." Emily had a smile of her own and sat down at the table.

Hanna looked over at her shoulder and saw that the coffee was ready. Her chair scraped back loudly as she got up and Emily winced. She then burned herself while trying to pour the beverage into a mug, yelping out a resounding, "Ow!" and Emily cringed.

And Emily remembered, that at the tender age of sixteen or so, she had a hangover.

* * *

**Author's Note: **DRUNK EMILY IS THE BEST THING EVER AND I KNOW VERY LITTLE ABOUT HANGOVERS BECAUSE I AM ONLY IN HIGH SCHOOL AND I AM ONE OF THOSE GOOD HIGH SCHOOL KIDS WHO ONLY DRINKS DURING PASSOVER AND AT SYNAGOGUE AFTER BLESSING THE CHALLA BREAD AND THIS IS A RUN ON SENTENCE IN ALL CAPS OKAY GOODBYE.


	5. Five

**Author's note:** No really. I suck at updating. Consistency is just not my thing.

This one is super short, by the way.

* * *

Emily Fields closed her locker door, smiling as one of her team mates waved before leaving the room. With a sigh, she sat down on the bench, bending over to slip her shoes on. The locker room was empty; she was the only one left. The smell of chlorine lingered in the air, and, in her sixteen or so years, she had never felt more comfortable.

Her shoulders ached, there was mark on her head from the rubber cap, her hair was in desperate need of a wash, and it was _wonderful_. Emily had almost forgotten what it was like to swim because she had taken a break from it. She missed the water, the adrenaline, and even the pain. It was good to be back.

But what wasn't good was the drama and competition.

Emily didn't want to be captain. Paige could have the position; she didn't care. But Paige obviously _did _care, and was, again obviously, prepared to do anything to make sure she was made captain. For a split second while being pushed under the water, Emily thought that maybe it was "A." Maybe Paige was "A."

Of course, that split second thought was ridiculous, and Emily knew better.

"Oh. You're still here."

Emily looked up. _Speak of the devil._

"What do you want?"

Paige went over to her own locker and dropped her swim bag on the bench. "Don't mind me. I just forgot a few things."

"Whatever," Emily muttered. She didn't want to leave with Paige still in the room, so she remained rooted on the bench, pretending to occupy herself with her shoes.

"There's no point in sticking around," Paige said as she unzipped her bag to throw some clothes in it. "I'm not going to undress or anything. I know how much you'd like to see that."

Emily stood up, her face growing warm in anger. "Oh, don't flatter yourself!"

Paige slammed her locker door shut as the insult cut through her. Emily smirked. She had never felt so smug before in her sixteen or so years. It took a few seconds for the other girl to compose herself, but then she, too, had a smirk on her face.

"I suppose you're staying after, hoping to work on your _breaststroke_."

Emily scoffed. "Please. My technique is flawless."

It was another few seconds before Paige could respond. Emily knew it was because Paige couldn't catch the euphemism. However, she didn't feel like sticking around for the brunette to say something, so she picked up her own swim bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"Besides," she said, walking up to Paige until their shoulders were almost touching. "I'm a flier."

Without even bothering to look back at the gaping look on Paige's face, Emily walked out of the locker room, pausing only to make sure the other girl hadn't followed her before leaving. It felt good to stand up for herself. Paige could mock and insult her for being gay, but nothing was going to change.

The smell of chlorine was lingering on Emily's clothes and in her hair. And, in her sixteen or so years, she had never felt more comfortable.

* * *

**Author's note:** Basically, I just wanted to make a sexual innuendo about the whole "breaststroke" thing. I felt like leaving it at that would be enough. Plus like. I can't really write about Maya anymore so I'm kind of lost.


	6. Six

**Author's note: **How Mrs. Fields' change of heart came to be. Or: Why Emily didn't want that leftover cobbler when she was talking to Hanna on the phone.

* * *

Emily Fields sighed as she pulled the plate out of the microwave. Her mother was out shopping and the cobbler leftover from two nights ago had been calling her name all morning. She decided that her mother being out of the house was the perfect time to finish off the remains of the dessert.

The warmth seeped from the bottom of the plate on to her hands as she carried it from the kitchen to the living room, carrying a spoon with her mouth. At the age of sixteen or so, Emily had perfected the art of balancing warm plates of food and eating secretively on the living room couch.

Emily curled up next to the arm of the couch, tucking her feet underneath of a pillow. She pulled the spoon out of her mouth and dug it into the cobbler like a shovel in the ground. The sweet scent of dough and fruit filled her nose and went down into the bottom of her lungs with each breath she took.

The stress of everything was finally breaking through her wall, forming cracks in the bricks she had so carefully stacked and cemented. So she resorted to eating cobbler, desperately hoping that the fruit and dough could cover up the cracks. However, she had learned in her sixteen or so years that no amount of dessert could change anything (other than maybe her current weight, but she hoped to never reach a point in her life where food could really do that).

No matter how much Emily wished, cobbler could not change the fact that:

Allison was still dead.

Her mother still hated her.

"A" was still controlling her and her friends.

Her mother still hated her.

Maya was still gone.

Her mother still hated her.

Paige McCullers still looked hot in a bathing suit.

_And her mother still hated her._

There Emily Fields was, in her sixteenth or so year, curled up on the couch and stuffing cobbler in her face like a spinster woman with enough issues to fill up a book. And all she could do was cry.

* * *

Mrs. Fields walked through the front door, carrying multiple bags full of groceries. She kicked the door with her foot, listening as it closed with a feeble click. She let out a tired sigh. After sixteen or so years as a mother, she had decided that grocery shopping was the most exhausting of all motherly chores.

"Em!" She called up to her daughter, "Can you help me with these?" She shifted her weight, trying to prevent the groceries from slipping out of her hands and spilling onto the floor.

There was no response. Mrs. Fields sighed again.

"Emily?"

She shuffled over to the kitchen, dropping the bags on the counter top with a heave. The rest of the house was seemingly quiet, and Mrs. Fields questioned if her daughter was even home. The thought overwhelmed her with panic, and she shook her head.

"Emily, where are you?"

And that's when Mrs. Fields heard it.

It was soft, almost inaudible, as if the sound was being muffled by a pillow or a cloth.

Gingerly and hesitantly, Mrs. Fields walked out of the kitchen, the muffled sound becoming plainer with each step she took.

"Oh." She gasped.

Emily was curled up on the couch, her face buried and turned into the cushion. The dessert plate from earlier, unbeknown to her mother, had been shoved under the couch, hidden and out of sight.

The feelings of both dread and sympathy pooled and hardened at the bottom of Mrs. Fields' stomach. Her body, from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes grew unpleasantly warm. The sight of her daughter curled up and crying on the couch was a sight that Mrs. Fields couldn't bare to see, because it meant one thing: she had failed as a mother. It took her sixteen or so years, and she had done it.

She knew. She knew that her daughter wasn't crying over a friend or a bad grade. She knew that her daughter was crying because she-_she had failed as a mother._ The cries coming from her daughter were the, "I can't do anything right and my mother hates me," sort of cries and she knew it. She knew because even failed mothers know these things.

Mrs. Fields hurried back into the kitchen, immediately leaning against the wall next to the cabinets for stability.

What kind of daughter cries because she thinks her mother hates her? What kind of mother allows that to happen? After sixteen or so years, this is what it came down to.

Mrs. Fields slid down the wall, watching as a grocery bag fell over and a can of chick soup rolled out. And all she could do was cry.

* * *

**Author's note: **Emily and I are very similar. We both have enough issues to fill an entire book (or two, or three, or twelve).


End file.
